Robin's POV
The night in the Bialian desert was a black cloak sprinkled with cold, distant stars, the icy air contrasting brutally with the scorching heat of the previous day. Robin ran with precise, rhythmic steps, his light boots sinking slightly into the soft sand that covered the uneven terrain. The night wind howled low, carrying fine grains that whipped his red and black cape, and he felt the cold penetrate his insulating uniform, but it didn't slow him down. His body, trained for years under Batman's tutelage, moved like a well-oiled machine—muscles flexing in harmony, breathing controlled to maximize efficiency. He followed the flashing signal on the holographic display of his utility belt, a tracker he had planted at some point his memory failed to clearly recall. The device emitted a low, intermittent beep, guiding him through the undulating dunes and shallow valleys, the terrain marked by long shadows cast by the silvery moonlight.
As he ran, Robin muttered aloud, his voice echoing in the desert void like a solitary monologue. "I wanted to remember why I left the tracker here," he grumbled, his breath escaping in white clouds in the icy air. The persistent headache throbbed in his temples, a remnant of the mind manipulation that had erased six months of his life. He questioned himself incessantly: why plant a tracker in such a remote area? Was it a trap? A marker for a rendezvous point? The gaps in his mind were like black holes, sucking away any attempt at clarity. The desert at night was treacherous—temperatures dropping to near zero, sand shifting like waves beneath his feet, and the possibility of nocturnal predators, like scorpions or snakes, lurking in the shadows. But Robin remained focused, his eyes behind the domino mask scanning the horizon, his body automatically adjusting to every irregularity in the ground.
He continued running in a steady direction, the tracker indicating the signal was nearby—just a few kilometers ahead. The moonlight dimly illuminated the path, revealing rocky outcrops and dunes that rose like frozen waves. His thoughts spiraled: Batman, Gotham, the young team—flashes of past missions, but nothing recent. "It must be important," he murmured again, leaping over a small rise to maintain momentum. The night air carried a dry smell of earth and stone, mixed with the saltiness of his own sweat. Finally, he spotted a small hill ahead—a modest elevation, perhaps ten meters high, with gentle slopes covered in loose sand. Without slowing, he nimbly scaled the hill, using his hands to propel himself on the steeper sections, his fingers digging into the cold sand.
Upon reaching the summit, Robin paused for a moment, panting, and looked down at the terrain. There, in the shallow valley below, stood a black electronic box—compact, the size of a briefcase, with smooth panels and a thin antenna blinking faintly in the moonlight. He squinted, his mask closing automatically—the internal displays activating thermal and infrared analysis modes, revealing subtle heat signatures around the box. He knew very well what was happening: a classic trap, the tracker as bait to lure intruders. The terrain was perfect for an ambush—the valley surrounded by dunes that offered cover, deep shadows where men could hide, and the night silence that amplified any noise.
Robin crouched on the hillside, his body pressed against the ground to remain partially hidden, his cloak blending into the shadows. He analyzed the terrain with trained precision: the contours of the dunes suggesting buried positions, faint marks in the sand indicating recent footprints hastily erased, and the subtle glint of metal in strategic locations—probably weapons or camouflaged vehicles. There were at least a dozen presences, based on temperature variations: soldiers, probably from the local army, waiting for the right moment. His heart raced slightly, but his training kept him calm—he calculated angles of attack, escape routes, weak points in the enemy formation.
Without hesitation, he made a controlled leap from the hill, his body spinning in the air in a silent pirouette to cushion the impact. He landed near the box with a dull thud on the sand, rolling forward for momentary cover. In that instant, what he already knew was proven true: men rose from shallow trenches and camouflaged dunes, emerging like ghosts of the night, automatic rifles pointed directly at him. There were fifteen of them, in beige and brown desert uniforms, helmets with night-vision visors, and hard expressions illuminated by the moonlight. They shouted in Arabic, the language flowing quickly and authoritatively—Robin understood enough to grasp: "His Majesty wants him alive!" Orders to capture, not kill, which explained the absence of immediate gunfire.
Seeing that he was surrounded—a tight circle of pointed weapons, with no obvious routes of immediate escape—Robin acted on instinct. His right hand plunged into his utility belt, extracting a compact smoke grenade. With a precise throw, he launched it onto the ground in the center of the circle. The grenade detonated with a muffled pop, releasing a dense cloud of chemical smoke—gray and opaque, mixing with the dust that rose from the impact, creating an impenetrable curtain that obscured vision within a ten-meter radius. The air grew heavy, soldiers coughing and cursing, night vision goggles failing in the artificial fog.
The men tried to find him, moving blindly through the smoke, rifles sweeping the air, hesitant steps on the treacherous sand. But they were met by one of the most skilled martial artists in existence: Robin, invisible in the fog, exploiting every weakness. He moved like a shadow, silent and lethal. The first soldier was surprised by a sweep—Robin slid low, his leg sweeping the man's shins with precision, knocking him back onto the sand with a dull thud. As soon as the man hit the ground, trying to get up in panic, he was met with a fist to the face—a direct punch to the jaw, the impact echoing like a crack, knocking him out instantly, blood streaming from his broken nose.
When the others turned in the direction the man had fallen, shouting warnings in Arabic, they found nothing—only their fallen comrade, motionless on the sand. Robin had already rolled to the side, shifting position in the smoke that was still slowly dissipating. They pointed their weapons in another direction, firing blind shots that ricocheted off the sand or echoed harmlessly. Robin counterattacked: he threw two batarangs from his belt—curved blades that opened in the air like mechanical wings, wrapping thin Kevlar ropes around two nearby soldiers. The ropes automatically contracted, trapping them like nooses, causing them to fall to the ground in a tangle of limbs and rifles, screaming in frustration as they tried to free themselves.
Three other soldiers, closer by, pointed their weapons at him—now glimpsing his silhouette in the thin smoke—and opened fire, automatic bursts illuminating the night with orange flashes. Robin reacted with trained acrobatics: he began to perform somersaults and backflips, his body spinning in the air with feline grace, dodging the bullets that whizzed past, craters exploding in the sand where his feet had been moments before. Each leap was calculated—a backflip covering three meters, a side flip to change direction unpredictably, the night air cut by the sound of his fluid movements. He felt the heat of the bullets whizzing by, the smell of gunpowder burning his nostrils, but the training kept him focused, his heart beating rhythmically.
At that moment, while the soldiers were firing, an unidentified object struck one in the temple—a metallic clang followed by a bone crunch, the man falling like a severed puppet. The object ricocheted off him and struck his comrade beside him, knocking him down with a sharp impact to the head, before flying into the darkness beyond the clearing. The remaining soldiers turned in that direction, confused and alarmed, and began firing—bursts illuminating the night, bullets tracing lines of fire in the air. The shots struck an object and illuminated the area, revealing something metallic gleaming in the moonlight—a circular disc, spinning back toward a rapidly approaching figure from the shadows.
They could hear footsteps approaching—fast, heavy, echoing in the sand like a war drum. At that moment, as the sound drew near, they could see a tall young man wearing a tight black and gray uniform, his helmet sealed covering his face, a shield on his left arm. He moved with extreme speed toward them, ignoring the crossfire, his body a menacing silhouette in the night.
They opened fire, bullets spitting from their weapons in continuous bursts. But the young man ran through the lead as if he didn't even feel it—his uniform absorbing impacts with sparks, his shield blocking the rest. He began a fight with efficient brutality. He hurled his shield at one, shattering his weapon in half with a clang, the disc ricocheting back into his hand like a boomerang. He threw it again as he ran closer, hitting another in the head right on the temple, knocking him out with a nauseating crunch of a cracked skull.
He approached one of the guys who was shooting, completely ignoring the bullets—one hit his chest, the impact sounding like a hammer hitting metal, but he didn't even flinch. He leaped up and delivered a knee strike to the soldier's head, the knee colliding with his jaw in a horrific crack, knocking him out instantly, the soldier falling inert with blood gushing from his mouth.
He grabbed his shield, which was returning to his hand, and threw it at another man who was trying to run, hitting him right in the middle of his back—the impact producing a nauseating sound of vertebrae breaking, the man screaming before collapsing paralyzed on the sand.
Two others pointed their weapons at him, fingers on the triggers. But at that moment, the weapons rose on their own and struck themselves in the head—as if an invisible hand had seized them, ripped them from their hands, and used them to beat themselves. The soldiers fell stunned, their skulls cracked by the impact of the butts.
Thus, a girl with green skin and red hair revealed herself, floating slightly above the ground, her white eyes gleaming in the darkness. She held more weapons in her mind—rifles levitating around her—and used them to strike the heads of other soldiers, the impacts echoing like hammer blows, knocking them down one by one.
The boy with the gray helmet and shield continued to decimate the soldiers with remarkable ease—fists flying in precise crosses, breaking noses and jaws, kicks sweeping legs and cracking bones. Robin, seeing this and not immediately recognizing him, simply accepted the help—better unknown allies than enemy soldiers. He also began throwing different batarangs to destroy weapons: curved blades cutting rifle barrels, tiny explosives detonating magazines, ropes entangling entire groups.
He found the young man's brutality strange—he saw that he was actually breaking arms and legs with great brutality, twisting limbs at impossible angles, bones cracking audibly, blood splattering the cold sand. But he had seen Batman do this many times before, and to him it was normal—a necessity in real combat, where mercy could cost lives.
When the last soldier was completely knocked out—a final punch from the shield-wielding youth to the stomach, bending him in half before an uppercut that sent him flying—and tied up along with his companions in a corner of the clearing, using the enemies' own ropes, Robin approached, wiping the sand from his gloves. "Thank you for your help," he said, his voice firm but cautious, assessing the newcomers. "You are..."
The boy in the helmet said, "My name is Forge. This is Miss Martian. We're a team, you're on our team too, but on our current mission, something interfered with our mental connection, causing us to lose our memories."
Robin looked at it, crossing his arms. "Do you have any proof of that?"
At that moment, the young man in the gray helmet spoke: "Megan, you can go get them." And Megan—Miss Martian—floated up and went into the shadows beyond the clearing, returning with a blonde girl who came walking, the bow on her back, and two people Robin recognized immediately: Kaldur'ahm, Aqualad, with his dark skin and Atlantean uniform, and Wally West, Kid Flash, longtime friends.
He saw the two of them unconscious, carried by Megan's telekinesis. He approached to check on them and saw that they were alive, but Wally had part of his head swollen, purple, and tender, and Kaldur was apparently very dehydrated—cracked lips, dry and pale skin, weak breathing.
He turned to his supposed teammate and said, "How long have they been like this?"
The boy in the gray helmet said, "Kid Flash has only been gone for a few hours, but Aqualad is the most serious case. He's been without water for almost two days. He urgently needs water to recover."
Robin, who had been crouching down observing the state of his friends, stood up. "Indeed, we need to regroup. We need to get back into a safe position."
At that moment, Megan said, "We also need to save our teammate."
Robin raised an eyebrow: "Another one?"
Megan nodded: "Yes, Superboy. He was created only recently, the six months of memory he had were implanted, he only has memories of six months of life. Now he has no awareness of anything, he's just a creature of pure instinct."
Robin closed his eyes like that, clenching his arm, processing the information—a difficult situation, with a wild Kryptonian on the loose, potentially captured or causing chaos.
The boy, Forge, said: "Indeed."
And Megan said, "We all need to recover our memories, otherwise we won't be able to make the correct plan."
Artemis, who until that moment had been silent with her arms crossed in the middle of the group, spoke: "But that means you're going to enter our minds, you're going to see the secrets we want to keep."
Robin, who had been silent until then, spoke: "Yes, but this may be the only chance we have to find the best solution in this challenging situation."
At that moment, Artemis looked displeased, frowning and crossing her arms more tightly.
Forge, who had been carefully considering this possibility, took a deep breath and spoke, looking directly at Megan: "There's a problem. If you delve into our minds, Megan, you're going to see some embarrassing parts. I know you'll try to filter out only what happened in the last few months, but even so... it's inevitable that some personal things will come out."
He paused, his tone growing more serious, almost solemn, as he kept his eyes fixed on hers.
"So, if we're really going to do this, Megan, I need you to understand: you need to recover your memories, because I alone can't address all the possibilities. After all, I was separated from the group when the mental intervention happened. I don't know exactly what you experienced during those lost months. It's important that we recover our memories. But I'll need you to... carefully filter all the information you can access. Don't pass on anything unnecessary to anyone else. Our secrets... we're going to trust you with them."
Forge said this looking directly into her eyes, his voice low but firm, laden with confidence and responsibility. Megan felt the weight of that gaze—the pressure of being the only one who could touch everyone's mind without revealing anything more than necessary. Her white eyes blinked once, and she lowered her head slightly, nodding slowly, as if accepting a far greater responsibility than she had imagined.
Artemis, seeing the scene, let out a sarcastic chuckle, trying to break the tension: "Nobody's interested in seeing you masturbating, Forge."
Forge turned slowly to her. At that moment, the helmet retracted with a soft click, revealing his face: pale skin, disheveled black hair falling over his forehead, intense blue eyes that seemed to hold a mixture of seriousness and vulnerability. He tilted his head slightly to the side, looking directly at Artemis with an almost shy half-smile.
"Yeah, but like... we're kind of dating, right?" he said, his voice lower, almost intimate, as if he were speaking only to her. "So my secrets are your secrets too."
Artemis understood immediately what he meant—the intimate memories, the private moments they had shared in the last few months. Her whole face flushed violently, her cheeks burning a vivid red that contrasted with her fair skin, her eyes widening before darting to the floor. She opened her mouth to retort sharply, but nothing came out—just a choked sound of embarrassment.
Robin, who was standing beside him, also understood the implication. He was too young to handle this kind of conversation with maturity; his face turned tomato red, his eyes wide behind his mask, and he quickly looked away, clearing his throat as if trying to pretend he hadn't heard anything. His ears burned, and he crossed his arms tightly, trying to regain his composure.
Megan, on the other hand, had a genuinely confused expression, tilting her head to the side like a puppy trying to understand a new command. She blinked several times, her white eyes analyzing Forge's face, then Artemis's, then Robin's, without fully grasping the reason for such an intense reaction. "Intimate state?" she murmured to herself, as if trying to decipher the term, her face innocent and curious.
The silence that followed was heavy, laden with awkwardness and a slight touch of unintentional humor. Forge cleared his throat, trying to break the moment, and turned his gaze back to Megan.
"So... shall we continue?" he asked, his voice a little lighter, trying to bring the focus back to the plan.
Megan nodded slowly, still processing everything.
"Yes... let's continue," she replied, her voice soft but with a hint of determination. "I will do my best to protect everyone's secrets."
Artemis, still blushing, murmured something inaudible and turned her face away, crossing her arms more tightly. Robin, trying to regain her composure, simply nodded, her face still flushed.
The group remained silent for another moment, the night wind blowing fine sand around them, as they all absorbed the weight of what was to come.
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